Getting this Show on the Road
by NiDubhchair
Summary: One month after the Apocalypse gets cancelled, Dean comes to regret not killing Roy and Walt when he had the chance. Tag to 5x16 "Dark Side of the Moon" and 5x22 "Swan Song." Spoilers through the end of Season 5. Canon pairings. NOT a Death!fic. Rated T for language.
1. All Over Again

**A/N: Hi guys! So, this story was actually published up here a few months ago, and then I got stuck and discouraged and deleted it 'cause I didn't want anyone to languish waiting for a chapter update that might never come. But – thanks to some encouragement from and brainstorming sessions with some lovely, lovely friends, this thing has roared back to life! I will be posting one chapter every week (maybe more often if, you know, people . . . clamor . . .)(and by clamor, I mean review – REVIEW, PEOPLE! SHOW YOUR AUTHORS SOME LOVE! ;-P) for the next month or so. Everything is pretty-much complete so don't worry – there will be no languishing in chapter-update-purgatory if I can help it!**

**Much gratitude is owed to my wonderful betas, Pickwick12 & SewonandSewForth, who picked this story out of the dust and gave it new life! Couldn't have done it without them!**

* * *

**One Month After the Apocalypse**

_On the one hand, Dean had always assumed it would end like this – cornered, bleeding, going over all the choices that could have prevented the present circumstances if only he hadn't been such a blind idiot. On the other, he had always assumed that no matter what crap went down in the end, Sam would somehow be there next to him. No matter what he had faced. No matter how acquainted he had become with the smell of death as it approached . . . Dean had never quite been ready to die alone._

**Four**** Hours Earlier**

"Don't forget the peanut butter at Costco, okay, hon?"

"Sure, babe."

Lisa's lips brushed his like tropical waves on volcanic rock. Even though he hadn't told her what he was actually up to, the kiss seemed to beg him not to go.

"I'll be back late – I promised Steve I'd meet him at Malloy's for darts."

"I won't wait up."

She smiled at him. It was torture knowing that she would anyway.

As he drove away, he glanced at the address scrawled on his hand: Holden's, 42 McCoy Crt., Brighamton. It would only take him an hour to get there. His hand traced the rough leather cover on the steering wheel, missing everything about the way the Impala's wheel curved to fit his grip. With thoughts of the Impala came jumbled memories of Sam – laughter, his brother asleep in the seat beside him . . . the sound of a shotgun, the sharp smell of gunpowder mixed with rock-salt . . . the taste of blood as Lucifer's mind in Sam's fist smashed into his face. Dean reached over and turned up the radio.

* * *

Dean looked the bartender at 42 McCoy Court in the eye. "Bobby Singer sent me," he said. The bartender looked around the empty bar, pulled a lever at the tap, and indicated with a blunt nod that Dean should go through the door that had just slid open in the dart wall.

"Guess I should duck first if I come back out during happy hour, huh?" said Dean with a grin. The bartender just grunted.

The room hidden behind the dart boards was a library of sorts – not nearly as extensive as Bobby's, but it did boast of a few rare tomes that even the surly mechanic didn't want around his place. In the middle of the room, lit by a skylight, was a glass case displaying the book Dean had come to see – a Babylonian Book of the Dead, containing a formula that "might-could-possibly-summon-something-like-dead-l oved-ones-or-other-things-from-hell-I-don't-know-b ecause-anyone-who's-ever-done-it's-died-bloody-but -it's-there-if-you-were-idjit-enough-to-try," as Bobby put it. Dean couldn't read Babylonian, but he hadn't come for the instructions. Bobby had those. He'd come to memorise the sigil associated with them, which purportedly burned any other paper it was written on to ash and destroyed any cameras which dared to photograph it.

Not that he in any way believed that it would actually work. The way he figured it, there was a 60% chance nothing would happen, a 39% chance it would kill him, and a 1% chance it would bring Sam back. But for Dean, trying was like breathing – he had to do it, or he would die anyway.

Dean looked over at the "librarian," a skinny teenager with his feet on the desk in the corner, doing what looked like math homework. The kid's eyes rose off the page and met his, and Dean felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. The hazel gaze and dirty-blonde curls, the layer of fading bruises on the cheekbone, the curious-but-wary look on his face – he was the picture of Sam at that age. For a moment he felt like he was back on the edge of that gaping black hole outside Detroit, watching his little brother fall into emptiness.

" . . . can get the hell out of here. I don't have time for effing tourists!" The room's keeper slammed his text book on the desk and snapped Dean out of his grief-stricken thoughts.

"Um, oh, uh . . . sorry," Dean said, trying to smile. "Um . . . Bobby Singer sent me here for a look at the, um . . ." He glanced at the writing on his palm. "The Utterpissing Codex?"

"The Utnapishtim Codex. Right behind you. Use the levers to turn the pages. _Don't_ touch the case. _Don't _take any pictures. And don't look too long at it."

"How long is too long?"

"No idea. My dad can read it for hours and come away with a headache. Guy that came in yesterday went blind after 30 minutes."

"Right. Thanks."

Dean looked down at the mouldy tome – the ancient lettering seemed to crawl over the page like spiders. He shuddered and looked back up at the librarian. He was biting his lip, pencil feverishly working out an algebra equation, eyes flashing like he meant to stare the problem into submission. Just like Sam used to. Dean cleared his throat.

"That books gonna burst into flames if you keep looking at it like that."

"Nah. I already tried hexing it. Didn't work. Pretty sure my algebra teacher's made a pact with Lucifer."

"Likely. Don't worry, kid. You'll get it. My little brother hated math so much growing up that he got really good at it – just for spite."

"Yeah? Where's he at now?"

_With Lucifer. Where I left him._

"He's, uh . . . he's dead."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Dean tried for a reassuring smile and focused back at the book. But now the look of the leather and the smell of the pages were the look and smell of his brother and Dean could feel the ache of helpless loss building in the back of his throat. He couldn't do this. He turned a page without really looking at it.

"You're not really the study type, are you?" said the kid, obviously desperate for someone to distract him from his homework.

"Yeah. Yeah, my brother usually did this part."

"You'll get used to it. I'm really good at it but only because Dad says I'm too young to hunt."

"You are."

"Whatever! My sister was hunting at my age!"

"Where's your sister now?"

"In the hospital up in Alaska. Bad Wendigo hunt. My mom's with her, but she's not in any danger, so Dad said I was too behind in school to go visit."

"Well, there you go."

"If I'd been with her, it never would've happened!"

"If you'd been with her, you'd probably have just gotten on the wrong end of a Wendigo claw too – and believe me, it sucks. You may not like it now, but . . . someday you're gonna be really glad your Dad put _you_ before Hunting."

The teenager gave him a pout that was the picture of Sam's. Dean quickly looked back down at the book before the tears came.

Dean hadn't turned but two of the dizzying pages when the wall slid open again, revealing an empty bar. Empty, that is, except for the prone form of the bartender, slumped over a fallen barstool. The teenage librarian jumped to his feet. "Dad?!"

Two ski-masked men emerged from each side of the doorway. The shorter one aimed a shotgun at Dean's chest. The other trained a rifle on the kid.

Dean raised his hands. He was getting rusty. The weight of the 1911A1 Colt in the back of his waistband mocked his evidently slowing reflexes.

The kid didn't seem to realise that there was an AR-15 pointing at his head. His eyes were fixed on his father as he made a run for the door.

"Sam, don't!" Dean heard himself yell over the deafening crack of the rifle. The teenager crumpled, a red stain spreading across the front of his shirt. Dean tried to get to him, but Shotgun blocked his path, resting the end of his barrel on Dean's chin.

"Oh no you don't, Winchester." There was something about the voice that triggered something only recently buried in Dean's memory: barked commands … the thunder of a shotgun … the smell of his brother's blood spreading on cheap motel bedsheets.

"Of course. Roy. Who else would it be?" Dean's laugh crackled with sarcasm. "I see Walt's as homicidal as ever. Here to try for a second execution or are your motives more financial this time?" Roy just moved the shotgun down to Dean's chest. His eyes were as wide as twin full-moons. Evidently, Roy was as surprised as he was.

"Look, if you're not gonna shoot me right away, can you just let me go over and take a look at the kid? Nobody was supposed to end up dead, right, Roy? Really, you'd think a sensible guy like you would have ditched Itchy McTrigger-Finger over there as soon as the Apocalypse was canceled."

"Turn around!" barked Roy.

Dean did as he was told, expecting that the last thing he would ever see was Sam's teenage lookalike bleeding-out on the floor.

But instead of blowing his head off, Roy just slipped the pistol out from the back of Dean's waistband and stuck it in his jacket pocket. "Go ahead, Mother-fucking Teresa, but no sudden moves," hissed Roy. The poke of the shotgun in the small of his back signalled that he was free to walk to the fallen librarian.

Dean crossed the space probably quicker than Roy liked. He was surprised to see that the boy was still conscious. The bullet had gone straight through, shattering the bones at the end of the shoulder like so many match-sticks. Blood was spreading on his shirt, and on the floor underneath him. His eyes were clouded with pain and profound confusion. His breathing was harsh and shallow.

"Dad?" he managed to whisper.

Dean looked over his shoulder at the body of the Bartender. Blood trickled from a massive bruise on his head, but he looked like he was breathing.

"He's gonna be fine, kid. Look, I know it hurts like hell, but I need to look at your wound and stop the bleeding, okay?"

"Okay."

"Now, that means I need to make it hurt _more_, but I'll try and make it quick, 'k?"

His patient could only manage a nod this time. Dean slid an arm underneath him and lifted him to the side, examining the exit wound. It was large, bits of bone and muscle smashed into a bleeding pulp around the gaping hole. Dean's vision grew blurry with rage. He tore off his plaid overshirt and pressed it to the wound. The boy gasped and twitched in his arms. In the back of his mind he could hear Roy and Walt arguing.

"_When I come back, I'm gonna be pissed." _His own remembered words mocked him. Why the hell hadn't he gone after them like he'd promised he would? He could have stopped this. He knew they were a control-room-short-of-a-nuclear-plant crazy. He knew they couldn't leave well enough alone. But no, he'd been so wrapped up with losing Sam to the cage. So focused on his own pain. His own crazy.

And here he was, losing Sam all over again.

"Am I gonna die?" Dean could hear the suppressed screams around the edges of his words.

"Nah. You'll just have a really good excuse to skip homework for the next few weeks. What's your name, kid?"

"Seth."

"Okay, Seth, you listen to me. Nobody is dying today. Nobody who doesn't deserve it. Now you just keep breathing for me, okay? That's all you have to do – just breathe, nice and slow, until I can get some help, you hear?"

The boy could only nod. Dean looked over his shoulder at their arguing captors.

"Look, Roy, just fucking shoot them both, or I will."

"We ain't here for blood, Walt, we's here for the book!"

"I told you once, I will tell you again, you leave him alive, we will be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our short lives, you pansy-livered woman!"

"We killed him once and look where that got us! Somebody up there don't take to nobody killing Dean Winchester and I ain't keen on crossing whoever that is! Let's just take the book and go!"

Roy turned to the Codex's case and started to smash on the glass with the butt of his shotgun. Dean saw Seth's eyes go wide. The boy grabbed his shirt and pulled Dean's ear close to his mouth. As it was he could barely hear the agonized whisper.

"You . . . wanna take . . . cover . . . if glass . . . breaks." Dean felt Seth's rattling gasp of breath like a kick in the gut. "Gun . . . desk."

But the glass wasn't breaking. "Roy, would you cut that out?!" yelled Walt. "You're gonna throw out your shoulder. The kid will know how to open it."

Dean's head shot up just in time to see Walt's steel-toed boot headed for his face.

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**Alright, peeps! Reviews are love. Next chapter should be up in the next week or less, but I reserve the right to be distracted since I'm also participating in a fic-challenge this week over at chappedassmonkey on tumblr, so . . . no promises beyond "Don't worry, it's finished, just needs a bit of polish here and there but you WILL read the end of this fic, and did I mention you shouldn't worry?" ;-) 'Til next time!**


	2. Phone Calls

**A/N: Here's the next piece, folks! As always, thanks to my amazing beta, Pickwick 12, grammar goddess and queen of commas!**

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Somewhere, Sam was screaming. The sound tore into his chest like an iron hook, pulling him up from the blood-tinged blackness where it felt like he'd been sleeping forever. _Sam . . . don't worry, Sammy. I'm coming. _Dean fought to open his eyes but his lids felt soldered shut. His mouth tasted like blood. Where was he? Why did his head weigh a million pounds? Still, the screams echoed in his dark confusion. _He had to get to Sam._

No. Sam was dead. He had let him fall into the Cage. Why could he still hear him screaming?

"Look, kid, I'll give you one more fucking chance . . ."

"I TOLD you . . . already . . . you . . . can't – AAAAAAHHH . . ."

It all came rushing back into Dean's aching head. Seth. He had to help Seth. His eyes shot open. With vision that kept switching from double to triple and back, he saw Walt standing over the teenage librarian, one boot putting cruel pressure on the boy's shattered shoulder. By the time Dean's awareness came into true focus, Seth's screams had turned into soft, desperate sobs.

"Please, mister . . . please just . . . just stop. . . Stop . . ."

The boot stomped down on the kid's side, and Dean almost screamed himself at the sound of the ribs giving way.

Rage boiled in his gut as he tried to figure out how to move his limbs. He imagined shooting Walt in the groin and watching him bleed out, then getting Cas to bring him back just so he could do it again. He let the anger wrestle with his physical helplessness, knowing it was capable of powering him past injury and pain. His right hand, flopping and twitching under the drawer-unit of the desk, suddenly brushed up against cold metal.

Gun. The kid had said something about a gun hidden in the desk. Dean closed his eyes, forgetting the rest of his body as he willed his right hand to work for him.

"Roy, goddammit, Nine-Lives over here's waking up. If you're not gonna shoot him at least tie him to the desk so he's not in the way."

It was now or never. The gun unhooked from the bottom of the desk and Dean wrenched himself up into the best shooting stance he could manage considering he was still seeing double.

He saw Walt bring his rifle up and around, and Dean pulled the trigger. Unfortunately his eyes had picked the wrong Walt to aim at and the bullet flew past the hunter's head and pierced the Codex's glass case.

An unearthly, ear-shattering shriek filled the room. Walt and Roy stumbled backwards, covering their ears. The room shook as a blinding sphere of hot red light began to grow in the air above the book. Dean had just enough time to grab Seth and pull him behind the desk before the room exploded.

* * *

"Sir, you really do need to sit down and let us look at you."

"Lady, don't touch me." Dean held a warning finger up to the EMS tech and coughed harshly into the sleeve of his jacket. "I am just dandy, and now that I've given my statement I'll be on my way."

"Sir," said the pretty paramedic, "pardon me, but that's bullshit. I can tell just looking at you, you're suffering from smoke inhalation, a 3rd-stage concussion and at-_least-_second-degree burns. There's no way you're walking out of here."

The cute ones were always the sharpest, Dean griped to himself. "Watch me," he grumbled as he headed on unsteady feet back to his truck, past the flashing lights of what he was sure was every emergency vehicle in the county. He'd stumbled out of the burning bar 15 minutes earlier with Seth in his arms, to find Brighamton's Best waiting for him. A neighbour had called when he'd heard the explosion, and as it was Dean was happy to send them back into the quickly disintegrating building to drag out Seth's dad. EMS had pounced on the unconscious father and son and carried them off in wailing ambulances before Dean had caught his breath enough to explain to the local sheriff about the petty robbery attempt, the exchange of gunfire (this was a concealed-carry state after all and a man had the right to feel safe in his own bar), the stray bullet that must have sparked a gas main, and the subsequent escape of the suspects. For there was no sign of Roy & Walt, and the lack of their tell-tale red van in the parking lot meant that, as much as Dean wished it were true, they were not currently being turned into Kentucky-Fried-Idiot within the ill-fated building.

But this time, he swore to himself as started the engine and pulled out onto the road, he wasn't letting them go. Dean pulled out his phone and dialled a familiar number.

Two rings, then, "This is Singer."

"Bobby – I need everything you've got on Roy Myers and Walt Collins."

"What do those two sons-a-bitches have to do with the Utnapishtim Codex?"

"Everything, now that the Codex is a pile of ashes."

"Are you alright, boy? You sound like you just smoked the state of North Carolina."

"I'm fine." Dean paused for several awkward moments as his lungs tried to hack out the ash clogging them. "Do you have anything on those maniacs or what? I need any place they might go or hide within driving distance of Brighamton."

"Are we talking 'really fine'-fine or Dean-fine?"

"Bobby, did you not hear me asking you for information?"

"Hold your horses and watch your tone, boy – the computer's still booting. What's this about the Codex being a pile of ash?"

"Just call me back when you have a clue where I can find these bastards, alright?!"

Dean hung up and dialled 411. In 60 seconds he'd been connected to the head of the ER at Brighamton General.

"This is Dr. Curry – to whom am I speaking?"

"Dr. Curry, this is Dr. Cooper at Fairbanks Memorial. I have a patient here who just received word that her father and brother are being treated in your ER, and she was desperate for me to try and get some news on their condition. Doctor to doctor, you understand."

"What were the names?"

"Um, last name's Holden . . . she has really bad handwriting. The boy's name is Seth."

"Oh, them. Well, the dad's open-and-shut – just a bad concussion and some smoke inhalation. He's coming round as we speak. The brother's condition is less . . . stable."

"What's the prognosis?"

"Well, between losing 4 pints of blood and the pneumothorax of the right lung, it's touch and go - they had to start his heart twice in the ambulance. He's in surgery right now. We won't really be able to say until he pulls through that."

"Right, thanks. I appreciate it – I'll pass that info along."

Dean hung up, threw the cell phone down and punched the accelerator to 95.

* * *

Dean had stopped for gas when his phone rang again. "Talk to me, Bobby."

"What's all this chatter I hear about Holden's place exploding?"

"It's evidently the chain reaction which occurs when you mix Roy & Walt with anything old, valuable, and remotely dangerous. Do you have my info or not?"

"You're not walking around with a door-jamb through your stomach like that one time, are you?"

"Bobby. For. The Last. Time. I'm fine, but I just watched those two worthless shitpissers shoot and torture a kid near-to-death in front of me, and I am not gonna rest until I've ended them! So – names! Addresses! Leads! Now."

Bobby sighed. "Walt's cousin owns a brewery not far from there. Last time it brewed anything was 1974, but the family still has the property. It's pretty remote – Dean, I don't think you should go into this on your own. Can't you wait for me or Rufus or Jake to get there?"

"I waited once before, Bobby, and this is where it got me."

"Look – they were in the explosion too. Maybe they're hurt and will have to hole up for a few days. Maybe they have a few ex-friends who owe me a favour. Be smart about this, Dean!"

"Just tell me where the brewery is, Bobby, so help me . . ."

"If you're heading west on 70, go north on 92. It'll be 10 miles past the right turn at mile-marker 30."

"Thanks. I'll call you when it's done."

"You'd better. Dean, promise me you'll be –" Dean closed his phone and sped towards the exit for Hwy 92.

* * *

The afternoon sun sat heavy in the sky by the time Dean saw the brewery on the horizon. Bobby had been right – he'd passed the last human-built structure miles before, and the long, squat buildings sat surrounded by nothing but fallow fields. There was no way he could approach from cover. He eased off the accelerator, hoping he could at least avoid announcing his arrival with the growl of the Chevy's engine.

Dean sighed. His adrenaline level had dropped over the past hour of driving, and without it he was starting to feel just how beat up he was. The back of his hands and head stung like the worst possible sunburn. He was pretty sure he was carrying wood splinters around in his back and legs. His head and jaw ached like he was coming off a week-long bender. And he still couldn't manage to catch a good breath without coughing.

"Dean, you are one fucked idiot," he said, smiling to himself as he watched the brewery's smokestacks grow taller with proximity..

The phone buzzed on the seat next to him. He glanced at the display – it was Ben. His hand hovered over the phone for a few seconds, then he picked up.

"What's up, sport?"

"Hey Dean – Mom wants to know if you're still at Costco."

"Uhhh, yeah. Yeah, I was, um, just in line to check out. What's up?"

"She forgot to tell you to get the catfish for the Little League Fish Fry on Saturday."

"Oh, okay, yeah, uh, I'll go get that right now."

"Thanks. Um . . . you okay, Dean? You sound like you're coming down with something."

A cough stopped Dean's concocted answer. He heard Lisa's voice in the background.

"Mom says if you're sick you should come straight home and skip the bar."

"Nah, no, I'm not sick," said Dean, trying to clear his throat. "This, um, this lady . . . handed me this sample of habanero salsa … and damn if it didn't go down the wrong pipe . . ."

"Right. Well . . . see you tonight, Dean!"

"Wait! Ben!"

"Yeah, Dean?"

Dean ran a hand down his face and sighed. "Um, nothing. Sorry – there was something I meant to tell your mom but I . . . uh . . . I forgot. This Costco place is turning my head. Too big."

"You're weird, Dean."

For moment Dean countenanced turning around, returning to the land of the living – the land of Lisa and Ben and Fish-Fries and Little League. Leaving the monster in the closet. Keeping his promise to Sam. Taking care of his new-found family.

But the first rule of being a Winchester was that monsters never stayed in closets. And the moment you no longer watched the darkness was the day the darkness took everything you loved. Hell, most of the time you managed to keep evil in your sights and it still got the better of you. When life gave you the opportunity to rid the world of scum once and for all, you took it.

"Right back at you, squirt."

"Bye!"

"Goodbye, Ben."

Dean silenced his phone, slipped it into his pocket, and pulled through the entrance gate of the brewery.

* * *

**As always, reviews are highly appreciated! Two more chapters and it should be all done!**


	3. Just Like You

**A/N: Hey y'all! Figured I would let you all have this chapter early in the spirit of Thanksgivingsmas. Many thanks to my beta, Pickwick12, Empress of Elucidation and Lord High Comma Mage, without whom this fic would still be mouldering . . .**

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He parked the truck behind a guard-shed and took stock of his available weapons. Sam's old 9mm and the box of ammo he always kept in the glove compartment. The silver knife under the wheel-well. The capsule of salt and the bottle of holy water in the side console. He pocketed the knife and loaded the gun, but left the capsule and bottle where they were. Sometimes evil was just the flesh-and-blood human kind.

Though, he had to admit, every time he'd gone up against humans instead of his usual supernatural prey he managed to get his ass handed to him. Every. Single. Time.

The sun's rays scattered as it dipped below the treeline to the west, creating a golden haze in the dust that the wind lifted from the fields and carried between the abandoned buildings. Everything smelled of rust and stale lager, bringing to Dean's mind the first beer he'd ever consumed – age ten, ducked down between two eviscerated Fords in Bobby's yard. Sam had laughed at him when he'd made a face and choked after gulping down a mouthful of the stolen Budweiser. Then, of course, he'd run to tell Dad that "Dean couldn't stop coughing." _Little bastard, even at six._

The memory and the isolation of the place – the wind lashing at derelict walls as the sun gave up and left the roofs with one last ruby-red kiss – reached into his stomach and matched the loneliness he'd hidden there. He could feel the emptiness at his back where his brother should've been standing, shotgun in hand. Feel it like a goddamn hole in his chest. The day had done nothing but pick at the scab he thought he'd been so careful to let heal over the past month – but wandering through the dust-worn lots with his gun in his hand and no one behind him had torn it away completely. It felt worse than bleeding to death.

He ducked between two half-demolished sheds at the back of the property, and, rounding the corner, came upon Walt's ugly red van. The side-door was open, and a meagre but distinct blood trail lead from there across the yard towards one of the main warehouses.

Dean followed the tell-tale red splotches into a maze of abandoned beer casks under an overhang, resenting the amount of concentration it was requiring not to cough and give himself away. The sudden change in lighting stopped him, as the trail disappeared and his aching eyes readjusted. When he could see more than swirling darkness he looked back down at his feet – but there was no sign of blood past where he was standing. The realisation that his concussed brain had missed something important hit just in time for him to turn around into Walt's hunting knife. Pain shredded past his ribs, forcing his breath from his body in a pathetic grunt.

"Looking for me, Winchester?" Walt hissed, yanking the knife out and slashing at Dean's right hand, causing him to drop his gun.

_One month. One fucking month and everything Dad taught you goes to fucking hell. Couldn't even get your goddamn gun up in time._

Dean ducked Walt's next attack and tackled him into the pile of empty aluminium casks. Hard metal edges bit into his back as the casks fell. One came down on Walt's hand and he dropped his knife. Dean's fist found Walt's face a couple times, but soon enough his opponent's hand had found his throat. Black stars popped in front of his eyes as Walt rolled on top of him.

"Whaddaya think, Dean? Will you be coming back a second time? 'Cause something tells me . . ." Walt drew a hand back and smashed a unyielding fist into his cheekbone. ". . . Heaven." Another blow connected with his temple. "Doesn't." Dean couldn't breathe, couldn't see. "Need you." _Dadsamcasanybodymakeitstop. _"Anymore."

Dean jammed a stiffened hand into Walt's throat and gasped in enough air to power a second jab at his eyes. The hold on his throat broke and Dean kneed his opponent in the groin and flipped him over into a pile of barrels.

"Heaven can kiss my ass, you dick_," _he growled, struggling to his feet._ "I'm_ not finished yet." Dean scrambled among the casks, searching for his gun before Walt recovered himself.

"Did you really think," Dean said, kicking a cask in the direction of Walt's writhing form, "that you could blow away my little brother in front of me and then blow up my one chance of seeing him again – not to mention torturing that kid, yeah, let's put that one down in the Bright Ideas Hall of Fame – and then skate right past me? I mean . . ." Dean spotted the 9mm and snatched it up, sliding back the chamber as he pointed it in Walt's direction. "I mean, I've made some shit decisions in the past, we all know it, but you know what all I've learned from that?" He took aim at Walt's center-mass and breathed out slowly. "Ideas have consequences."

He fired just as Walt rolled and came up with a shot of his own. Walt's bullet went wide, pinging off cask-sides and sending two more columns crashing to the ground. Dean didn't know whether his had found it's mark, but Walt was still firing so it didn't much matter either way. Dean wasted two more rounds before deciding that he needed to find better cover. He ducked around the scattered, rolling casks, firing blindly over his shoulder. The vicious buzzing past his ears from time to time told him that he wasn't moving nearly as fast or as gracefully as was healthy, but he knew that the fact that the bullets kept missing meant his opponent wasn't in great shape either.

He finally reached shelter around the corner of another warehouse as Walt ran out of ammunition. Dean listened to him reload as he checked his own clip – 4 shots left.

"What happened to Tweedle-dum, Walt?" He leaned out to try and get a shot but the other hunter was still well-hidden. "He bleeding out in a warehouse somewhere? Don't you want a chance to say goodbye? You know, like the chance you gave Sam & me?"

A bullet pinged off a pipe above his head. "Come on, Walt, you're telling me you've been a hunter since I was a kid and you _still_ can't hit the broad side of a brewery? No wonder Dad only worked with you once."

Walt let out a harsh laugh that turned into a coughing fit. So - Dean had been on-target at least once.

"You know," he yelled when he got the cough under control, "I remember that hunt going south for one reason, and one reason only – your dad bringing along a worthless, pimply-nosed tweenager named Dean."

"I didn't go on that hunt. But man I loved hearing the story – my dad could get downright comical describing you two idiots."

"You don't _remember_ going on that hunt. And boy, you are lucky you don't – cause watching yer insides get ripped out by a Black Dog, ooo-ee! Still gives _me_ nightmares and I wish the monster had finished the job!"

Dean frowned. Truth is, it's hard to remember your adolescence 15 years down the road, especially when your formative years were one long, blurred string of spirits, shotguns and cheap motels. But he was pretty sure he'd remember almost dying, especially on a hunt that had become one of his father's favorite stories to tell when he'd had a shot too many.

Truth was, after making a life out of cheating death, Dean didn't really want to know the truth.

"We gonna sit down and have a heart to heart or are you gonna give me something to shoot at?"

"He doesn't need to," came a voice from behind him. Dean turned and fired three wild shots in Roy's direction before a slug from his own Colt 1911-1A buried itself in his chest.

* * *

_On the one hand, Dean had always assumed it would end like this – cornered, bleeding, going over all the choices that could have prevented the present circumstances if only he hadn't been such a blind idiot. On the other, he had always assumed that no matter what crap went down in the end, Sam would somehow be there next to him. No matter what he had faced. No matter how acquainted he had become with the smell of death as it approached . . . Dean had never quite been ready to die alone._

"_You're not alone, Dean."_

"_Yeah, I am, Sammy. You're in the cage. I'm dying, plugged with my own gun. Probably gonna be buried under a pile of empty beer kegs. Typical." Dean turned his bloodied face towards his brother – Sam's hair was short. He was wearing the gray t-shirt and jacket he'd been wearing that night in Stanford, 5 years before. "You're just a wish. That's all . . . Your hair ain't even the right length. God, my brain is messed up."_

"_Well, you _do_ have a concussion . . ."_

"_Fuck, even my subconscious is a smart-ass."_

"_So, this is it? You're just . . . giving up?"_

_Dean drew a slow, harsh breath. The fact he was somehow talking to his dead brother in a subconscious netherland hadn't lessened the crushing pain in his ribs & head. His lungs felt like they were filled with sand. His heart was struggling, flopping around in his chest like a dying fish._

"'_M so tired, Sammy."_

"_Dean. Stop it. You can't just quit." Subconscious Sam grabbed the collar of Dean's jacket and shook him as his eyes drifted closed. "Dean, you're not done. You CAN'T JUST LEAVE ME HERE." _

_Dean wasn't sure, but he thought he could smell burning flesh. His brother's face seemed to crack along its edges with flame._

* * *

"SAMMY!"

Dean's eyes shot open, his dream-fueled adrenaline punching him upright before his body could voice its own opinion. The resulting pain in his ribs and chest slammed him back to the ground with a frustrated groan.

"Fuck it, kid, what is it with you and your brother?"

He turned his head. Roy was sitting against the wall of the warehouse, bloodied hands pressed against a wound in his stomach, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. His – _Dean's –_ gun lay in the dirt next to him. Sam's gun was still in Dean's hand.

"You've still got a bullet left, I checked," said Roy, throwing the cigarette away.

Dean coughed, lightly fingering the trigger. "That an . . . invitation?"

"Maybe."

"Walt's dead?"

Roy spat blood into the dirt next to him and closed his eyes. "Yep."

Dean thought about it. He thought about Seth and his screams and the way they mingled in his memory with the nightmares he had about Sam every single night. He thought about the Codex and the pinprick of hope it afforded him, floating off into the sky with the rest of Holden's place - the pinprick now a spike nailing him to the ground like some kind of trapped insect. He thought about promises made long ago and the sound of a shotgun shell entering the chamber and the road through heaven and the smell of a garden where no god walked.

"Why didn't you just kill me?"

The other hunter shook his head and turned a red-tinged smile in Dean's direction. "Goddamit, boy, you think just 'cause I . . . followed that mouth-breather around means I ever wanted any of this on my conscience? We was just like you once, me an' Walt. Grew up . . . chasin' Rougarou through the Ozarks. Walt'd saved my life, and I his, a dozen times before you was even out of diapers. Fuck if it weren't fer . . . me an' Walt, you and your daddy'd been worm-food years ago . . ." Roy took in a sharp, shallow breath and closed his eyes. Blood spilled past his fingers and pooled black into the red dirt around him.

"Yeah. Walt . . . mentioned that." Dean shuddered, the cold from the ground reaching into his bones as he tried to recall the supposed rescue.

"Shit, son, he walked 5 miles holding your innards inside you like you was a leaky keg . . . me draggin' your daddy behind him. Lucky that conjure woman was feelin' so mighty generous or you'da died right there in that swamp. Her spell was a . . . bit strong-like . . . ruined your memory for a few months, so your dad said . . . Bastard blamed us for the whole thing, of course." He fell into a coughing fit that made Dean's gutted ribs ache more just listening. "So . . . Don't you think fer a minute . . ." Roy's voice was barely a whisper, but Dean recognized the determination in his eyes – the resolve of a man with only one last mark to leave on the earth. "Don't you think that what we did back . . . back at the Econo Lodge was easy. We was tryin' to save the world . . . don't you 'nderstand? Just like you an' yer brother . . . Just like you an' . . ."

Roy's head slid to the side, glassy, dead eyes staring up at the first evening stars.

* * *

**Probably the most angsty thing I've ever tried to write. :P Have mercy on me and leave a review? I welcome honest opinions, even if they're not 100% positive. I promise the next/last chapter will post in the next week or so.**


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